I have always heard people say, “spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Well, questions pop up in my mind each time because I wonder if my family was really that spoilt. What had we done to deserve such bitterness, violence, toxicity and hardships in life?
I would ask my mum why we could not pack and leave that house and start a new life elsewhere. But only God knows why she kept on holding to that toxic marriage. We were beaten for failing to prepare supper. This was food he neither bought nor left money to buy. To date, permanent scars paint my back from belt lashes because I was the “rebellious” child.
Everything happened in a predictable cycle—I could always tell what would happen every evening. Early in the morning, I would be woken up by my mum’s wails and sobs after she had been battered and injured severely by the man she loved.
At times, I just wanted to give up and run away from home but the constant image of my father’s clenched fists was so vivid that I balked at the very thought. I always felt like my family needed my presence the most at these times.
At times, all I could think about was, “how could he?”, “why did he do that?” I could feel my heart stained with bad blood and bitterness not believing how a man would sexually abuse his underage daughter. What a shame?
Lying flat on the railway with my eyes glued to the sky, I blamed myself for not having made a move quickly to help my sisters and mum.
But they were no more. The wolf snuffed every bit of life out of them and I was lucky to escape the jaws of death.
After burial and his arrest, I was now set to start a new life as a street child with no family. I had no house and no food.
I am very glad that I found a well-wisher who took me in. I consider myself very lucky to have survived to tell the tale.
*Name has been changed to protect the author, a victim of domestic violence. Are you aged 10-20 and would like to be Nation’s young reporter? Email your 400-600-word article to [email protected]
